


Role Call

by ToBebbanburg



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Bondage, Hand Jobs, I'm warning ya now, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Role Playing, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Top!Joe, because that's what you get for boning in a nightclub toilet, joe gets the back massage he deserves, this whole thing is just role playing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27284833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBebbanburg/pseuds/ToBebbanburg
Summary: The secret to a 900 year relationship is not, as Nile first guessed, threesomes. It takes work, and compromise, and even if Joe and Nicky would Never get bored of each other, sometimes pretending to be other people keeps things... fresh.This is a collection of one shots for all you people who've steadily been making their way through Marwan and Luca's filmographies these past months.Chapter 1: Fabio and Daan
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 124
Kudos: 224





	1. The Nightclub

Joe and Nicky weren’t boyfriends. Had never been boyfriends. Nicky had been Joe’s lover for the first few decades, then his partner, and occasionally his husband when they were in the mood for something “official”, but the fact was they had long since passed the point where any word could truly describe their relationship in any meaningful way.

“That’s deep.” Nile said when they explained it to her one night. Andy was out “reconnecting with humanity” that evening, her words for “finding a decent enough shag”, and the remaining three of them were spending a cosy night inside, enjoying a rare moment of relaxation.

“I can’t... none of my relationships have ever lasted more than a couple of years, I can’t even begin to imagine how you guys made 900 years work.” Nile continued.

“With precisely that.” Nicky said with a wry smile. “Work.”

“It also helped that we got off to the worst start possible.” Joe laughed. “Things could only go up from there.” Nicky gently nudged his foot under the table at that.

“I don’t mean this to sound rude, but, does it never get boring?” Nile asked, genuinely intrigued. “Being with the same person for all that time?”

“Oh I wouldn’t say _that_ exactly.” Joe said, catching the way Nicky was looking at him and grinning. Nicky rolled his eyes, but he was smiling too.

“There was that time with the deli owner in Amsterdam.” Nicky said deadpan, and Nile’s mouth dropped open just a fraction.

“Mmm, in the club. I remember.” Joe agreed. It had been a good night. “And that time I seduced a foreign minister in London.”

“Ah.” Nile said, her brow furrowing slightly and her mouth dropping open even more. “I wasn’t expecting threesomes to be the answer to a healthy 900 year relationship.”

“We never mentioned threesomes.” Joe corrected, trying very hard not to laugh. Perhaps he was being purposefully obtuse, but it was just too easy to tease Nile about this.

“Then...?” Nile let the question hang in the air.

Joe raised an eyebrow at Nicky and received an almost imperceptible nod in return.

“I’ll get some wine.” Nicky announced, standing up. “Nothing _too_ explicit, Joe.”

“Of course.” Joe reassured him.

“ _What is it?"_ Nile asked, fully exasperated by that point.

“Well,” Joe started, casting his mind back. “It began sometime in the late 14th century, but it happened as recently as a couple of years ago...”

*****

Joe had had many names over the years. Yusuf. Joseph. Giuseppe. He tended to stay as true to his original name as he could, wanting to cling on to the only thing his parents had given him that he still had left.

Tonight though, he was Daan. Daan was a recently divorced Dutch deli owner, tentatively testing the waters of online dates and one night stands. The internet wasn’t working for him: it was so hard to get a _feel_ for someone until you saw them in the flesh he had found, and so that night Daan was trying a different tactic. He was going to a club.

The music and alcohol thrummed through Daan’s veins, a stream of different singers taking to the stage at various points in the night in a souped-up version of an open-mic night. Daan barely paid any attention to them, their voices little more than background melodies as he drank, and danced, and flirted. When a man called Fabio was announced to the stage Daan didn’t even turn round to look, instead remaining engrossed in a friendly debate about electric vehicles with a man with shocking pink hair.

He lasted all of three seconds into the song before he was hit with the urge to turn round and _look_ , to see who the owner of the powerful voice that had shot straight to his heart was. The man on stage caused Daan’s idle chatter to stick in his throat. He was stunning.

Longish hair was pushed back from the singer’s face, the man’s eyes highlighted by a dark eye-shadow that sparkled under the spotlights. His jacket sparkled even more, and he wore nothing beneath it. Daan’s throat went dry as his eyes tracked down the bare chest, unable to stop them travelling lower still, taking in the sinfully tight jeans that clung to the man’s impressive thighs. To top it all off, the singer was wearing a pair of cuban heels, effortlessly strutting about the stage in them. Daan completely forgot the pink-haired man beside him, entranced by the vision in front of him.

Daan was unable to quite make out the words of the song above the din of the club, but the raw emotion was clear, the roughness, the _passion_ of the music sending shivers through his body. He could listen to this man's voice for years and not grow tired of it.

“He’s good, huh?” the pink-haired guy said.

“Very.” Daan agreed, his eyes not leaving the man on stage for an instant. He could almost swear that the man was looking at _him_ , that the song was directed at Daan and Daan alone, and he suddenly felt too hot, his collar too tight around his neck. He would go outside for air if that didn’t mean leaving this man behind. He didn’t even want to blink.

The song reached its crescendo, the final notes ringing out into the club, and as the singer pointed dramatically out into the club, Daan realised he was pointing directly at him. His pulse skyrocketed, and he downed the rest of his drink in a single gulp as the singer jumped down off the stage and made his way towards the bar. Towards Daan.

He was even more beautiful up close, his eyes a piercing blue/green that locked onto Daan’s own eyes as he drew up beside him, leaning on the bar with the easy confidence of a man who _knows_ the effect he has on people.

“You were great.” Daan said earnestly, unsure of what else to say. Beside him, pink hair sighed and wandered away, leaving Daan alone with the singer.

“Grazie.” The man said, his Italian accent thick. Of course, he had been introduced as Fabio. Daan cursed himself for not figuring that out earlier.

“Can I buy you a drink? You must be thirsty after that performance.” Daan offered, hoping he wasn’t overstepping any boundaries: after all, Fabio had approached him. Fabio studied him, tongue running across his teeth as he unashamedly looked Daan up and down.

“Sure.” He said after what felt like an age. “Surprise me.”

Daan ordered two glasses of champagne, the good kind. He had a feeling Fabio was a man who appreciated quality. He was right.

A glass of champagne and a terrible attempt at smalltalk later and Daan found himself pushed into a stall in the toilets, Fabio’s hands tangling in his hair and pulling him in for kiss after bruising kiss. He kissed with the same roughness and passion with which he sang, his teeth nipping at Daan’s lips and tongue darting into his mouth, demanding _more_. Daan was more than happy to oblige.

He barely had the presence of mind to lock the stall door, Fabio demanding every ounce of his attention. Daan kissed him until his lips were swollen and he was hard in his jeans, helplessly rutting against the other man.

“Want to taste you.” He said against Fabio’s lips, backing him up in the stall towards the toilet. “I _need_ to.”

Fabio laughed, his expression smug as he nudged the toilet seat down with his foot and sat down, unbuckling his belt in preparation.

“Help yourself.” He said, biting his lip as he looked up expectantly at Daan.

That look alone was enough to send Daan to his knees, and he reached eager fingers out to fasten onto the waistband of Fabio’s jeans. He slid the jeans down Fabio’s legs, revealing a pair of dark red lacy pants doing a poor job of covering his cock. It was like Fabio had got dressed that evening with the explicit aim of looking like Daan’s wet dream, and his mouth watered at the sight in front of him. He couldn’t resist leaning in to press his lips to the point where the lace was stretched _especially_ taut across his dick.

Fabio’s hips jerked, and one of his hands came down to clutch at Daan’s hair.

“If you make it good, I’ll let you fuck my thighs after.” Fabio promised. Daan was going to make this so good.

He tugged on the lacy underwear so that just the head of Fabio’s cock poked out, and Daan sucked gently on the tip, flicking his tongue out in little kitten licks, just to taste. He mouthed along the shaft, thoroughly wetting the lace and making it cling to the shape of Fabio’s cock even more, then tugged the underwear to one side so that he could take Fabio’s sack into his mouth. Daan moaned around his mouthful, enjoying the weight against his tongue, the heady scent that was somehow familiar and comforting.

“These have to come off.” He told Fabio when he finally pulled away, hooking a finger into the waistband of his pants to emphasise his point.

“No, they don’t.” Fabio corrected him with a smirk.

He batted Daan’s hands away then rearranged himself, pulling the lace down and away from his cock, sadly covering his balls back up in the process. Daan didn’t mind too much. He could work with this.

He took Fabio’s cock in one hand, guiding it into his mouth and pumping the lower half slowly as he started to bob his head up and down. He was gratified to hear Fabio moan, followed by a dull ‘thunk’ that was presumably his head falling back to rest against the wall.

“Good.” Fabio murmured, his fingers clutching at Daan’s hair, urging him on. “So good for me.”

Daan hummed his approval as he took Fabio deeper, until the head of his cock reached the back of his throat and Daan swallowed, eliciting a loader moan from Fabio. He pushed himself further, until his nose was buried in Fabio’s curls and the lace underwear scratched against his stubble. This, _this_ was what he had come out for. Every gasp, every moan from Fabio sent jolts straight to his own cock, making him increasingly hard and desperate.

Besides a few lazy thrusts of his hips, Fabio seemed content to let Daan set the pace, and he set about using every trick he knew in order to make it good, good enough for what Fabio had promised him. He could sense when Fabio was close, when his fingers clutched just that little bit harder and his hips stuttered slightly more, and Daan pulled off completely, smothering a laugh at how Fabio’s back arched as he jerked up into nothing.

“Where do you want to cum?” Daan asked him conversationally, keeping his touch on Fabio’s cock feather-light. Enough to keep him close, but not enough to find any release. Fabio glared at him, his hips still helplessly grinding into air.

“Swallow.” He told Daan. “Swallow it all.”

That was all Daan needed to hear, and he ducked his head down to take Fabio all the way to the root. One long suck later and Fabio was spilling down his throat, Daan making sure to swallow every last drop as ordered. Above him, Fabio was panting, his bright eyes dark as he looked down at Daan.

“So?” Daan asked, pressing one last kiss to the tip of Fabio’s cock. He stood up and undid the buckle of his belt, pulling his jeans down just enough to pull his cock out and start stroking it. He didn’t miss how Fabio’s breath hitched as he watched, how his eyes followed Daan’s every movement.

“Sì.” He said eventually, pushing himself up off the toilet and fumbling for something in his jacket pocket. He drew out a sachet of lube and tore it open, coating his fingers and using them to firmly stroke Daan’s cock, preparing him. He turned his back to him, bracing his hands on the door of the cubicle, then twisted his head around to arch an eyebrow at Daan.

“Well?” He asked, smirking.

Daan groaned, taking a hold of Fabio’s hips and pushing into the tight space between his thighs in one fluid motion. Oh but it felt wonderful, Fabio’s legs warm and muscled as they squeezed tight around him, his heeled boots making him the perfect height for Daan to brush against his balls as he worked against him. The lace of the underwear dragged along his cock with every thrust, sending sparks of pleasure straight to the base of Daan’s spine.

The door shook as Daan picked up the pace, chasing his release, and Fabio gasped and muttered encouragement in Italian. God, his _voice_ , that same voice that had bewitched Daan back on stage, was now enough to push Daan over the edge. He came with a grunt, pulling Fabio back by the hips sharply before spilling between his thighs.

“Fuck.” He breathed, resting his head in the crook of Fabio’s neck. Fabio snorted, turning his head to tenderly press a kiss to Daan’s curls, and just like that he was Nicky again.

“You know, I _had_ booked an air bnb for this.” Nicky said lightly as he extracted himself from Joe’s embrace, pulling a length of toilet roll out in order to wipe his thighs down.

“We can still make use of it.” Joe grinned.

“Oh?” Nicky raised an eyebrow as he pulled his jeans back up.

“Mmm.” Joe leant in to nose behind Nicky’s ear, making sure his stubble tickled the sweet spot he knew was there. “I don’t think I’m ready to say goodbye to Fabio just yet.”

“Ah. I did have an encore planned if you wanted a private performance.” Fabio cocked his hip to one side and quirked the edge of his mouth up in invitation. Daan’s pulse sped up again.

“Yes. Please. Lead the way.”

*****

That was what Joe remembered, at least. The heavily censored version that he told Nile was:

“I pretended to be a Dutch deli owner. Nicky was posing as a nightclub singer. He had heels and tattoos and the most ridiculously sparkly jacket I’ve ever seen.”

“Tattoos?” Nile asked, latching onto the subject. “Can we get them?”

“Sadly not.” Nicky answered, returning from the kitchen with a bottle of wine and three glasses. “I had to get Andy to draw them on me. I'm pretty certain she wrote a dirty poem in Aramaic on my ribs.”

“Oh.” Nile sounded disappointed. “Still, I’m surprised you go to that much effort to change your appearance just for one night.”

“That’s nothing.” Joe said. “I shaved my beard off entirely in the 30s for this once.”

“That was for more than a night though.” Nicky pointed out as he poured the wine.

“Ah yes.” Joe grinned as he remembered. “You were playing hard to get then.”

Nile snorted and took a sip of her wine. “Go on then, out with it.”

Joe leant back in his chair, resting his hands behind his head. "Why don't you take this one, hayati?"


	2. The Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stow-away on the Orient Express!  
> Train conductor Pierre Michel finds a struggling writer hiding away in the cargo hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know everyone's going mad about that Martin Eden interview because of the ponytail moment, but really I'm just glad that they clarified that it's not set in one particular time on purpose, because it messed me up trying to figure out when the hell it was set when I first watched it. That being said, I got major 30s vibes from that film more than anything, so here we are.

The Orient Express was an incredible train, more of a hotel on wheels than an actual method of transportation. Passengers booked their tickets on it for the experience, for the glamour, for the three days where life outside ceased to exist and the world condensed into a few carriages of cosy luxury.

Martin Eden didn’t experience any of that supposed luxury, but then that was rather his own fault for deciding to stow-away in the cargo hold. He had made a nest for himself in amongst the rows of suitcases and crates, with nothing but his own coat and a moth-eaten blanket he’d found to keep away the chill. Not for the first time, he was envious of those able to afford seats in the heated carriages, where blankets and hot cocoa would be provided at a snap of the fingers. His own fingers would probably shatter if he tried to snap them, the digits stiff and unresponsive from the cold.

No matter. It was only three days until they reached Istanbul, and Martin had survived worse before. He blew on his fingers in an attempt to get some warmth into them, then jammed them under his armpits. He had wanted to spend the journey writing, but his fingers were too numb to hold a pencil, and the sound of his typewriter risked alerting one of the guards. He’d just have to sit here, and stay quiet.

He managed to remain undetected for almost two hours after the train left Paris.

“You shouldn’t be here.” A man had managed to sneak up on Martin as he daydreamed, one of the conductors by the looks of things. He was smartly dressed in uniform, clean shaven and with the most soulful pair of brown eyes Martin had ever seen. There were worse people to be discovered by, he decided.

“You’re right.” Martin agreed. “I should be over in one of the main carriages where I wouldn’t be in danger of frostbite.”

The conductor’s brow furrowed. “Do you have a ticket?”

Martin simply shrugged.

“I’ll have to report you.” The conductor said, sounding almost sad about the fact. It was strange, Martin thought. It had almost seemed like the other man had been _looking_ for him, and yet here he was ready to throw him off the train at the next stop.

“Please.” Martin tried. “I don’t have the money for a fine, or a ticket. I don’t have anything.”

The conductor bit his lip, clearly thinking things through. Those wonderful eyes of his seemed to bore straight through Martin’s own, as though seeing straight through him.

“Alright.” He said eventually. “But please, stay here. Don’t cause any trouble for me. I can’t risk this job.”

“I won’t.” Martin grinned, and held out his hand. “Martin Eden.”

“Pierre Michel.” Pierre took his hand, then dropped it again almost immediately. “You’re freezing!”

“Ah, only a little.” Martin shrugged again.

“Wait a moment.” Pierre told him, then moved to the other end of the carriage to start rummaging through the boxes and crates there. After a couple of minutes he came back, a heavy tasselled blanket in one hand and a pair of gloves in the other.

“Spares.” He explained, offering them out. Martin eagerly took them and slipped the gloves on straight away, then arranged the blanket over his knees.

“Thank you.” He said earnestly.

Pierre looked like he were waiting for Martin to say something else, but when nothing was offered he simply let out a low sigh.

“I have to get back to work.” He said. “But I’ll try and bring you some food later.”

He left, turning to look back over his shoulder at Martin before exiting the carriage as though still waiting for something, and Martin felt a pang in his chest at the sight. He almost called out, almost asked Pierre to stay a while longer, but the other man was gone before he could.

*****

“It must be lonely.” Martin remarked to Pierre that evening. True to his word, the conductor had returned with several sandwiches wrapped neatly in a handkerchief, and they were both sat on the floor opposite each other as they ate.

“Lonely? No, I spend my whole day surrounded by people.” Pierre corrected with a smile.

“Exactly. Surrounded by people who don’t really see you, who view you as another piece of furniture, as a service.”

Pierre shrugged. “That’s just my job.”

“But it shouldn’t be that way. You should be noticed, respected for _who_ you are and not _what_ you are.” Martin insisted.

“Oh, I see it now.” Pierre laughed. “You’re one of those philosopher-writers, unhappy with the world and determined to let everyone know about it.”

Pierre had him horribly sussed out, and Martin decided he’d rather stare at the floor for a while instead of at the other man’s earnest expression.

“The world’s not so bad, you know.” Pierre said, nudging Martin’s foot with his own. “There are plenty of good things in it. Like these sandwiches.”

The sandwiches _were_ pretty good, Martin had to admit.

“And there are good people, too, you just have to find them.” Pierre continued. Martin looked up at that.

“People like you.” He said. “Bringing food to a stow-away.”

Pierre’s smile grew. “It’s my job to look after passengers, is it not? Even those who don’t pay.” He paused, and wetted his lips before speaking again. “I could stay tonight, if you like. Keep you company.”

Martin shook his head. “Someone may need you. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

Pierre didn’t seem convinced.

Martin smiled, trying to reassure him. “I’ll be fine. I’ve slept in worse places.”

“If you’re sure.” Pierre stood up, somewhat stiffly. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.” Martin agreed, leaning back against the wall and snuggling under his two blankets. He wondered if Pierre would have really spent the whole night with him: two bodies were more likely to stay warm than one, he supposed, though why Pierre would give up his own warm bed for a stow-away he didn’t know. He fell asleep swiftly, only to dream of the conductor’s deep brown eyes and warm, comforting smile.

*****

The next day was much the same as the one before. Pierre checked in on Martin several times during the day, bringing him food and stories of the passengers he waited on. In turn Martin read Pierre some of the story he was currently writing, and the other man listened as though it was the most beautiful poetry instead of what was, in Martin’s own assessment, a drawn out collection of heavy-handed metaphors. They talked, and laughed, and when night came and the air became colder still Pierre once again offered to stay. Again, Martin reassured him he’d be fine on his own, and Pierre left with a hint of hurt in the air.

In truth, Martin would have loved the company. The conductor was kind and charming, with a disarmingly genuine smile, and if Martin read the signals correctly he was more than a little interested in him. Yet it wasn’t right to put Pierre in a risky position just to satisfy his own needs, wasn’t fair for the other man to put his job and livelihood on the line for a man he’d only just met.

Martin dreamt of Pierre yet again whilst he slept, and woke up with an ache in his heart and a need in his soul that were almost debilitating in their strength. Just like that, his determination to not compromise the other man was worn away until there was little of it left, and when Pierre arrived in the hold in the mid-morning Martin’s resolve shattered completely.

“I don’t know how you do it, spending all day rushed off your feet, taking care of these people who care nothing for you in turn.” Martin said, more focused on Pierre than on the pastry the man had set in front of him like an offering.

Pierre laughed. ”I told you, that’s just the job.”

“True. But you need to be taken care of too. If only for a little.” Martin shifted the pastry to one side and shrugged out of his blanket, spreading his legs wide. “Here. Sit.” He patted the space between his legs.

Pierre swallowed, and Martin noticed with a smug hint of satisfaction that his eyes darted to the point where Martin’s trousers were stretched just a _little_ too tight around the thighs.

“Why?” He asked, once he had managed to tear his gaze away. Martin held up his hands.

“Massage.” He said simply, waving his fingers. “You look tense.”

“That would actually be nice.” Pierre sighed at the thought, and settled himself on the ground in front of Martin. He let Martin reach his hands round to undo the buttons of his jacket and peel it away from his body, shivering slightly as he was exposed to the chill air of the carriage.

Martin was almost tempted to ask him to remove his shirt as well, but he didn’t want Pierre to freeze, and so started to work his fingers up the muscles of Pierre’s back. It was true that he thought Pierre could do with being taken care of for a change, but Martin wasn’t above admitting that he had ulterior motives: namely, getting his hands on Pierre one way or the other. Pierre’s back was surprisingly muscled, probably as a result of lifting other people’s luggage all day, and there were plenty of knots for Martin to work away. He busied himself with methodically working his way up from the base of Pierre's spine, paying particular attention to the places where Pierre's breath stuttered which signified a particular rough point.

“You’re good at this.” Pierre groaned appreciatively as Martin moved his hands up his back and started to knead away at the tension in his shoulders. “I’m sure some of the passengers would pay you good money for a session like this.”

“They don’t deserve it.” Martin said, gently massaging the back of Pierre’s neck. “Not like you do.”

Pierre laughed at that, and sank deeper into the touch. Martin could feel him relaxing bit by bit under his hands, until the other man was practically melting into the floor of the carriage, all tension worked away. Slowly, wary of alarming the other man, Martin moved his arms around to the front of Pierre’s body, enveloping him in a hug. To his delight, Pierre leant into the embrace, leaning his head back to rest against Martin’s neck. His back was broad and warm against Martin’s chest, better than any blanket, and Martin tightened the embrace.

“Feeling more relaxed?” he said, his voice quiet as he turned to murmur the words into Pierre’s ear.

“Very.”

“Care to relax a little more?” Martin shifted one of his hands, raising it up to cup at one of Pierre’s pecs, his thumb lightly grazing over a nipple.

“Only a little?” Pierre teased, and Martin gave his nipple a firm pinch in response. Pierre’s breath caught, and Martin chuckled, rubbing circles over the firm peak before ducking his head down to suck a kiss into Pierre’s neck.

“When was the last time someone touched you like this?” Martin mused as he let his hand trail down Pierre’s chest, coming to rest at the top of his trousers.

“Too long.”

“Then let me take care of you.” Martin dipped his hand lower, coming to rest over the growing bulge in Pierre’s trousers. He squeezed ever so slightly, eliciting a gasp from Pierre, and he continued to softly palm at him through the fabric.

“You… already took care of me.” Pierre stuttered out. Martin laughed, and moved to undo the fastenings of Pierre’s trousers.

“And what if I want this too?” he asked, his fingers hovering barely a centimetre away from Pierre’s cock, waiting.

“Oh, well, in that case.” Pierre tried to joke, but the laugh caught in his throat before it had the chance to escape as Martin slipped his hand beneath his underwear, cupping him directly.

Pierre was already half-hard, his cock delightfully warm and fitting perfectly into Martin’s hand like it was made to be held by him. Martin trailed his fingers down and pulled him fully out of his underwear, then spat into his hand and wrapped his fingers properly around Pierre’s length. Despite the spit, it was slightly too rough for him to do much more than stroke Pierre gently into full hardness, and both he and Pierre groaned a little at the sensation of _not quite right_.

“Jacket pocket.” Pierre told him after a minute, waving vaguely at the discarded coat.

Martin slowly withdrew his hand to see what Pierre wanted, and after rummaging through the pockets of the discarded jacket for a bit managed to find a small tub of Vaseline. He laughed to himself as he took the lid off: Pierre had been hoping, if not downright expecting this.

He returned his hand to Pierre’s cock, the Vaseline slicking the way and letting his strokes glide faster and faster over the soft skin. He timed his strokes with the rhythm of the train, giving Pierre a few sweet moments of predictability before switching things up. He stopped stroking completely in order to play at the head of his cock, thumb swiping across the slit to gather up the single bead of precum there before smearing it back down Pierre’s length. He tugged lightly on Pierre’s balls, then let his fingers drift further back, stroking the sensitive skin in soft circles before pressing ever so slightly on the tight ring of muscle there. When Pierre keened at the touch and tried to push back onto Martin’s finger, Martin returned to his methodical strokes on Pierre’s cock.

Martin’s other hand seemed to move as though guided by instinct alone, somehow knowing when Pierre needed a sharp tug on his nipple at the end of a particularly languid stroke, and when he needed the lightest of pressure against his throat when his hips jerked up to meet Martin’s hand.

He made a wonderful sight, coming apart under Martin’s hands, and Martin regretted letting Pierre go those first two nights. He had wanted this then, he knew now, wanted to give himself and his pleasure over to Martin to do with as he pleased.

“I’m close.” Pierre gasped out as Martin sped his movements up.

“Good.” Martin kissed the shell of his ear, keeping his pace steady.

Pierre turned his head, burying his face in the collar of Martin’s jacket so that when he came his cry was muffled by the fabric. Martin stroked him through his release, stilling his hand when he felt Pierre’s cock stop twitching. His own cock was aching, straining against his trousers and pressing up hard against Pierre’s back, but he made no move to touch himself. This was about Pierre.

Pierre, however, had other ideas. He turned around to face Martin, repositioning himself so that he was sat in his lap, and leant in to press their lips together. As he felt Pierre’s mouth move against his, Martin could barely believe that they hadn’t kissed before. It felt so perfect, as though something that had been missing his whole life had finally slotted into place. Pierre’s kiss was gentle, his tongue exploring Martin’s mouth with a surprising tenderness, and Martin could do little else but close his eyes and drink him down.

He wasn’t expecting the hand on his cock when it came, Pierre’s hand firm and fast in a contrast to the slow kiss they were sharing, and Martin didn’t know whether to cry out for more or ask him to slow down. He wanted both, Pierre’s touch somehow too much and yet not quite enough, and soon Martin was reduced to panting against Pierre’s lips, unable to find the coordination to return his kisses. His body tensed as he came, and Pierre held him tight as he rode the high back down.

“You should come with me. When we reach Istanbul.” Martin said, saying the first thing that came into his orgasm-addled brain.

“Alright.” Pierre said easily. _Too_ easily.

“Oh come on, Joe, that was out of character. You’ve known me for less than three days and you’re willing to leave your job behind and run away with me?”

“It’s completely in character!” Joe protested. “If a handsome man hides away on my train, gives me a massage _and then_ an incredibly skilled hand job, how am I _not_ supposed to fall in love with him on the spot?”

“Alright, you make a compelling argument.” Nicky laughed, and gave Joe a quick kiss on the neck to apologise. “As soon as we reach Istanbul we’ll run away together.”

“Mmm.” Joe agreed, snuggling back into Nicky’s arms and pulling the blanket up over them both. “I like the sound of that.”

“You should keep the uniform though.”

*****

“Nicky likes a man in uniform, we discovered that around the mid 1700s.” Joe grinned as Nicky finished telling the story.

“And you like what? Nicky in eyeliner and heels?” Nile was smiling now too, already comfortable with teasing them both. She was truly part of the family, Joe thought with a hint of pride.

“Oh because of that time in the club?” he said. “Mmm. Although those heels were _nothing_ compared to the gogo boots Nicky bought in the 60s.”

“Platforms.” Nicky added. “ I was almost an inch taller than Joe. Not that it made much difference in the end.”

“Now _this_ I have to hear.” Nile laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nicky, sometime in the early 1800s, seeing Joe dressed in British militia uniform for a mission: “Oooh, Mr Darcy”  
> Andy, torn between correcting him and not wanting to reveal she’s read P&P: “that’s not... I don’t think he was in the army”  
> Joe, deciding there may be 1 (one) good thing about the military: “ssshhh let the man speak”


	3. The Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the swinging sixties, and Nicky and Joe decide to act out a boxer trying to get some... release, after winning a fight.
> 
> Majid (Wolf) x Roberta (L'Ultimo Terrestre)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get into the action (and by the action I mean: smut), just a note to say that although Roberta is transgender, Nicky is just dressing up as a woman in this. I feel that’s a distinction I should make.

Majid’s money was burning a hole in his pocket. The winnings from his last fight weren’t huge, but it was still more money than he’d held in his hands for a long while. He should save it, really, or buy a gift for his trainer, but Majid wanted something _now_. He always got amped up after a fight, the adrenaline coursing through his blood and making the hairs on his arms stand on end. He needed a release.

Everyone in town knew where to go when you felt like that. When flirting and messing about in clubs was too much effort, took too long. It wasn’t something that Majid indulged in often, but tonight he felt he’d earned it. He drove through the winding streets of the city, making his way to _that_ corner. The corner that was actually several corners, the road between them lined with dozens of women and a few men putting themselves on display. Majid had barely made it to the first corner when he saw her.

She was tall, her heeled platform gogo boots only making her taller, and she held herself with no small amount of grace. Her skirt was scandalously short, showing off lightly muscled legs that Majid instantly wanted to feel wrapped around him, and her top seemed little more than a thin piece of white fabric artfully draped over her shoulders. Majid was so transfixed that he almost forgot to brake until it was too late, and he had to sheepishly reverse a few feet back to her spot.

“I hope you drive better than _that_ if you intend on picking me up in that thing.” The woman said, bending down to peer in through the window. Her long dark hair fell around her face as she did so, and she daintily tucked the stray strands away behind her ear. Majid may have stopped the car for her legs alone, but her face was equally stunning. Striking eyes the colour of the ocean were emphasised by long lashes and wickedly sharp eyeliner, and her lips were quirked into a smile that begged for him to lean over and kiss.

“Just demonstrating an emergency stop.” Majid grinned at her.

“Truly dashing.” She said dryly. “Shall I come in?”

“Please.” Majid leant over and pushed the door open for her. She stepped into the car, having to angle her legs to the side of the footwell in order to fit them in. She somehow managed to make sitting in a too-small car look elegant.

“Roberta.” She said, turning her smile onto him again.

“Majid.” He replied.

“A pleasure.”

Majid wrestled his car into gear and drove off, heading out of the city and into the countryside.

“Where are we going?” Roberta asked as they sped along the narrow road.

“Somewhere quiet.”

“Ah, wife at home and you couldn’t stretch for a hotel, is that it?” she teased.

“Parents, actually.” Majid corrected. For some reason he felt he had to clarify, even though he knew it made no difference to Roberta. He may be a lot of things, but he wasn’t a cheater, and it seemed important that she knew that.

Roberta looked over her shoulder into the back seat of the car. “I think we can make it work.”

There was a dead-end lane off one of the tiny country roads just a few minutes out of the city, and Majid pulled in there, switching the lights in his car on. He turned to Roberta, who arched a single eyebrow at him.

“Shall we?” she said. He nodded, and they both stepped out of the car, falling into the backseat together.

They both knew what was going to happen, and Roberta wasted no time in leaning into Majid’s arms, her hands coming up to gently caress his beard as she angled their heads together for a kiss. She tasted of cherry lip gloss, and Majid couldn’t help but moan into her mouth as she flicked her tongue out to coax his lips open. She kissed him hard, with a fervour that was so passionate Majid could almost believe it was real, and he was more than willing to relax and let her talented tongue take the lead.

He trailed his hands up the backs of her legs, pulling her even closer towards him, and her hair tickled his chest as she leant over to press kiss after kiss against his lips, along the line of his jaw.

“What do you want?” she asked him, pulling back for breath.

“Huh?” Majid hadn’t been prepared for questions: he’d been too busy enjoying the feeling of Roberta in his lap.

“You’re the one paying.” She chuckled. “What do you want? A hand job? Blow job? To fuck me?” her voice dropped as she leant in to whisper in his ear: “Or I could fuck you.”

Majid’s fingers tightened on her thighs as he pictured her last suggestion, his cock twitching at the thought. But no, sadly, he hadn’t prepared for that. Not tonight.

“I want to fuck you.” He told her, and she smiled against his lips before kissing him again, as deep and as filthy as the other kisses had been.

“Excellent choice.” She purred. She shifted in his lap slightly, grinding up and against the hard line of his dick, and Majid moaned into her mouth.

It was uncanny how she seemed to be able to read his body like a map, somehow knowing every single one of his most sensitive and responsive spots. It was just her job, he thought somewhat bitterly, as part of him hoped it was just _him_ she was able to read like this.

She pulled away from him slightly after a while, and pushed him back against the seat when he tried to follow. She laughed at his disappointed expression.

“Just for a moment, caro, we need to get these off you.” She said.

She tugged his belt undone and set to work on his fly, her nimble fingers making quick work of ridding him of his jeans. Majid caught on, and pulled his boxers down while she was still disentangling his jeans from his feet. She grinned when she noticed, then sat next to him in order to shimmy out of her own underwear. Her hand returned to reach around the back of her skirt, and Majid shot his own hand out to catch hers.

“Leave it on.” He said, his voice rough. “You look so beautiful in it.”

“You’re sweet.” Roberta smiled, and tapped the index finger of her free hand gently on his nose. “But that wasn’t what I was going for.”

She broke out of his grip with surprising ease, and instead of reaching for the zipper of her skirt her hand went under, reemerging a moment later clasping the flared base of a plug.

“Oh.” Majid said, his gaze fixed on the plug. It looked so _big:_ had she really been wearing that all evening, just on the chance someone would fuck her?

“Mmm, just your size.” Roberta had a wicked glint in her eye as she followed Majid’s line of sight to the plug, then looked purposefully at his cock. She was right, it was _exactly_ his size, and if Majid hadn’t believed in destiny before he certainly did now. He leant back slightly against the seat, and gripped the base of his cock, ready to hold it steady for Roberta to sink down onto.

“One moment.” She told him. She reached into her purse and pulled out a sachet of lube, briskly warming it between her fingers before slicking Majid’s cock with it. She didn’t offer a condom, and Majid honestly didn’t care. He wanted to _feel_ her, wanted her to feel him as he came apart inside her.

She straddled his legs and slowly lowered herself down onto him. Despite the plug she still felt unbelievably tight, and it took all of Majid’s force of will not to thrust straight up into that perfect heat. As if sensing his restraint Roberta sank down the last couple of inches in one fluid movement and settled herself on his lap, rocking her hips slightly forward and making him see stars for a split second.

“Go on.” She pressed herself against his chest, her lips tickling his ear. “I can take it.”

She lifted herself up until just the very tip of his cock remained inside her, and took a hold of his hands, placing them on her slim hips. When she lowered herself back down again Majid snapped his hips up and pulled her down, hard, and she let out a low cry as he hit home.

“Good.” She breathed, letting him help lift her back up only to drop down again and again and again.

She was perfect, Majid thought, her body moulding itself to his as he pushed inside her over and over, deeper and deeper. She rode him ferociously, the muscles in her thighs taut as she moved against him and _God_ , those legs drove Majid mad. He had no doubt that she could fuck herself on him like this for hours without getting tired.

She leant back ever so slightly, bracing herself against the front seats as she changed the angle to let Majid in deeper. He leant over to follow her, pressing kisses against her neck and the exposed expanse of her chest. He was worried about marking her: she hadn’t explicitly said that he _could_ , but to his relief (and slight disappointment) her pale skin didn’t seem easy to bruise. That didn’t stop him from trying, however, and he found the spot on her neck that made her cry out when he sucked on it _just so_ and kissed it with fervour.

His thrusts grew more erratic, Roberta trying valiantly to keep up but ultimately unable to do so. She settled for allowing him to fuck into her as he wished, clenching tightly around him and moaning words of encouragement that conspired to send him over the edge, spilling deep into her as the thrust in once, twice more before stilling.

She held him as he tried to get his breathing under control, running her fingers through his hair and across his back until his heart had finally reached a normal pace again.

She lifted herself off him and fell back onto the seat next to him, her legs spread wide and her own cock rising up thick and proud from beneath her skirt. She was leaking heavily, drops of precum spilling their way down the shaft, and Majid wanted to fuck her all over again. He couldn’t resist from plunging two fingers back inside her, fucking his spend back in as he leant forward to mouth at her neck again. Roberta moaned, reaching down to wrap a hand around her cock and began to jerk it in time with Majid’s thrusts.

“Cum for me.” Majid urged, slipping in a third finger just to admire how Roberta’s breath hitched as he did. “You look so pretty in white, I want to see you covered in it.”

“Cazzo.” Roberta breathed, speeding up her hand. Majid could feel her clenching around him, her muscles tensing as she chased her own orgasm. The car was rocking slightly, he could tell, but he didn’t care in the slightest as he helped Roberta work towards her peak. He watched as she came, transfixed by the way her eyes scrunched shut, by the way her whole body seemed to tense as she spilled across her own chest, white drops speckling her abdomen like pearls.

“Beautiful.” He said, and she laughed.

“Flattery won’t see me take money off.” She told him. “But I appreciate it.”

Majid had almost been hoping that she’d forget the payment- not that he didn’t want to part with the money, but because he’d thought, he’d _hoped_ that what they’d shared went beyond business. Apparently not though, and he so he reached into the front of the car to retrieve his wallet.

“Here.” Majid handed Roberta a bundle of crisp notes. “That’s more than enough.”

“Grazie.” Roberta flicked through the notes then carefully tucked them away into her purse. Majid waited a moment, expecting something in return, but Roberta seemed more concerned with touching up her eyeliner in the mirror.

“Nicky.” Joe reproached. “I can’t believe you’re _actually_ keeping the money.”

“Why?” Nicky turned to look at him with a devilish smile. “This car’s a rental, I’ll have to pay to get it cleaned.”

“You’re terrible.” Joe told him. “I’ve been cursed to fall madly in love with a terrible, terrible, man.”

“Aw.” Nicky pouted in mock sympathy, then pointedly licked the remains of the cherry lip gloss off his lips. “Want me to make it up to you? This one’s free of charge.”

“Terrible.” Joe repeated, then considered it. “Yes.”

*****

“I still can’t believe the love of my life, my own husband made me pay for sex.” Joe sighed as he finished recounting the tale.

“I didn’t make you pay _for sex_.” Nicky countered. “I told you, that money was for cleaning the car. And reimbursement for the boots.”

“Ah well. Money well spent.” Joe admitted.

“So do you coordinate your characters beforehand?” Nile asked.

Nicky shook his head. “Not generally. That was a rare occasion. I needed Joe to find me.”

“We _do_ sometimes arrange things beforehand, lay down ground rules for if things are going to get particularly interesting. Like that time in the 70s where I let Nicky kidnap me.” Joe added.

“Andy refused to pay the ransom.” Nicky said, his mouth quirking into a smile as he remembered. “I really had to punish Joe for that.”

Nile suddenly looked quite pallid. “I think we can skip over that one.” She said.

“Mind you, that time in London...” Joe suddenly remembered a particular time where the lack of coordination beforehand had turned out… different. Nicky snorted as he followed Joe’s train of thought, and Nile let out a frustrated sigh.

“You can’t just say things like that. You may be able to read each other’s minds, but I can’t.”

“We both decided to be foreign ambassadors.” Nicky explained. “I guess after 800 years together it was inevitable that we’d have similar ideas to each other.”

“Foreign ambassadors planning a coup in their home countries no less.” Joe elaborated. “It turned out rather well, actually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a day off work to write this. Haven't been able to use my holiday to actually go on holiday this year, so...
> 
> Next up: scandal at the French Embassy


	4. The Embassy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey Miranda is looking for political allies, and maybe someone to help pass the evening with. Jafar, it seems, is after exactly the same things.  
> Meanwhile, Andy gets done fuckin' and returns to the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ken Follett writes hideous sex scenes and I had to somewhat rectify that by letting Mickey Miranda 69 the hottest of Jafars.

The French embassy was, in Mickey Miranda’s opinion, a tad gauche. There was such a thing as trying too hard, and by god they had done it. Every rug, every wall, every piece of furniture would have looked acceptable in isolation, but brought together they created an assault on his senses. Mickey hadn’t come there to be assaulted: he'd come because he'd been promised a party. The party, however, like the décor, wasn't living up to his expectations.

He scanned the room, looking for anyone of interest, someone who stood out: either someone who could prove useful to him, or someone who could distract him from the tedious excuse for a party. Ambassadors and foreign dignitaries, he’d come to learn, generally seemed to have been sent to London as some form of punishment, or were here because their own countries simply couldn’t stand to have them within their borders anymore. They all seemed to either be terribly stupid, or terribly dull.

One man though caught his eye, for the sole reason that he was doing exactly the same as Mickey was: assessing everyone at the party, and finding them wanting. His manner was polite enough on the surface as he smiled and bowed and conversed with the other guests, but there was a slight curl to his lip, a glint to his eye that suggested an underlying cunning. Perfect.

Mickey swiped a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and made his way over. The man was dressed in dark red and black robes edged in gold, and Mickey had to admire him for refusing to conform to English convention. He himself was dressed smartly in an embroidered waistcoat and evening jacket, but that was only because Cordova’s national dress was of little note. The man cut an incredibly striking figure in his robes, and Mickey began to hope that their conversation would be pleasurable in more ways than one.

“Mickey Miranda.” He introduced himself smoothly, holding out his hand. “Foreign Minister of Cordova.”

“Jafar. Vizier and Ambassador of Agrabah.”

Jafar shook Mickey’s offered hand, his grip delightfully firm yet his skin as smooth as his voice had been. Mickey kept a hold for marginally longer than was polite, making sure to look up at Jafar from under his eyelashes as he did so. Jafar’s lips twitched ever so slightly.

“Cordova.” Jafar rolled the name in his mouth. “I can’t say I’ve heard of it.”

“I could say the same of Agrabah.” Mickey grinned and took a sip of his champagne. “Have you been in London long?”

“Long enough.” Jafar said dismissively.

“Oh? Long enough for what?”

“Enough to know I’m not going to find what I’m looking for here.”

“And do I dare to ask what that is?” Mickey asked coyly, tilting his head to one side and giving Jafar his best smile, the smile that promised _everything_. Jafar’s tongue darted out to run across his teeth as he considered Mickey, unashamedly looking him over.

“Allies.” He said eventually, his voice low yet sharp. “Men who might be supportive of… a change in tradition, let’s say.”

“I understand perfectly.” Mickey said. “I have often found myself wishing Cordova was in more _modern_ hands. Perhaps we could be of some use to each other?”

Jafar laughed. “You think I want your help?”

“Oh no. I know you _need_ my help.” Mickey drained the rest of his champagne and set it down on the garish dresser behind him, then stepped forward to bring his lips up to Jafar’s ear. “But I think you _want_ me.”

He walked away without waiting for a response, though he could practically feel Jafar’s eyes on him as he did. He left the ballroom and entered the main lobby of the embassy, paused just long enough for Jafar to catch up, then made his way up the grand staircase to the top floor of the building.

He hoped that the French embassy was laid out much the same as others that he’d been to, with the top floor set aside for bedrooms and living space for the ambassadors and any guests. The first door he tried was locked, but the second opened into a sizable guest suite. The bed was neatly made, and there weren’t any personal affects lying about: just what he was looking for.

He had barely made it a few steps into the room when he heard footsteps behind him, and the sound of the door softly closing. A moment later he felt Jafar press up against his back, a ringed hand reaching up to cup his jaw and turn his head up and to the side, bringing his mouth mere inches from Jafar’s own. Jafar leant in to kiss him and Mickey pulled back, just slightly, just to see how the other man’s eyes darkened.

“Is it not customary for business to come before pleasure in Agrabah?” he teased. Jafar’s grip tightened on his jaw, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to Mickey’s cock. Oh he had _definitely_ made the right choice.

“Is it not customary to offer a gift to sweeten the deal in Cordova?” Jafar replied.

Mickey grinned, then licked his lips, his eyes fixed on Jafar. “I’m willing to compromise.” He said.

Jafar moved in to kiss him and this time Mickey let him, turning around in Jafar’s arms to press them together, chest to chest. Jafar kissed hard, with purpose, and Mickey gave as good as he got. He used every trick he knew with his tongue, with his teeth, and was soon rewarded by the feeling of Jafar’s growing hardness pressing against his leg. After a final kiss Mickey drew back, and slowly backed up towards the bed.

He stripped himself slowly, enjoying the way Jafar’s eyes drank in every new bit of skin that was revealed, and once he was fully naked he reclined back on the bed.

“Are you not going to join me?” he asked with a smirk, and began to lazily stroke himself as he watched Jafar hurry to rid himself of his own clothes. Soon enough Jafar joined him on the bed, and started to kiss him with the same intensity as he had before. Mickey groaned into his mouth and tangled their legs together, running his hands up and along Jafar’s body as though attempting to memorise the muscles beneath his fingertips. Jafar was all muscle, surprising for an ambassador, but Mickey wasn't complaining in the slightest.

He felt Jafar’s hands thread through his hair, teasing lightly at the strands at first and then tugging more firmly, trying to pull his head down into Jafar’s lap. Mickey wriggled free.

“I’m not going to kneel.” he said haughtily. Jafar was breathtakingly handsome, but Mickey still wasn’t prepared to drop to his knees.

“Then neither will I.” Jafar replied. “Which I believe puts us at something of an impasse.”

“Perhaps not.” Mickey said, a thought popping into his mind. “We are both diplomats, are we not? I believe we should be able to reach a position of mutual satisfaction.”

“Go on.” Jafar said, a note of interest in his voice.

“Lie on your side.” Mickey commanded, pleased that Jafar didn’t fight his request. Once Jafar was lying down, stretched out along the length of the bed, Mickey positioned himself opposite him but in the reverse position: his head and Jafar’s feet pointing the same way.

“Ah.” Jafar said, understanding what Mickey wanted. He slid further down the bed and towards Mickey until they were almost pressed face to groin. His hands came up to cradle Mickey’s arse, pulling him close, his breath hot against Mickey’s cock. Mickey held his breath as Jafar slowly took him between his lips, the other man’s tongue swirling gently around the tip before sucking him down. It took all his self-control to lean forward and lick a long stripe up Jafar’s cock, the temptation to simply give in and enjoy the other man’s talented mouth almost overwhelming.

He changed his mind almost as soon as he got his mouth around Jafar. The taste, the sensation of him in Mickey’s mouth was exquisite, and Mickey eagerly drank him down. It soon turned into a competition of sorts, each man trying his hardest to ruin the other, trying to hold back their own moans even as they coaxed them out of the other’s lips. Mickey took Jafar as deep as he could, suppressing his reflexive urge to gag and instead swallowing around Jafar’s cock, and the resulting cry was so great that Mickey felt himself slip out of Jafar’s lips.

Sensing he’d gained the upper hand, Mickey rolled them both over so that Jafar was lying on his back, and eagerly took his cock back into his mouth, idly thrusting his own hips against Jafar’s face with little care for reciprocation.

“Oh, Nicky.” Jafar moaned from somewhere beyond him.

“Mickey.” Mickey corrected with a slight smile.

“Mickey.” Jafar breathed out against Mickey’s cock, sucking lightly at the head. Mickey felt a drop of precum bead at the tip, and Jafar licked it away with an appreciative noise.

“You taste so wonderful, _Mickey_ ; I wonder if you taste as good elsewhere?”

Mickey had little time to wonder what Jafar meant before the other man pushed at his hips, forcing him to shift his knees forward. He felt a pair of hands on his arse, each hand taking a firm grip and spreading him wide, and a moment later he felt a gust of hot breath against his hole. Jafar urged him to shift back against his face, and Mickey’s breath caught in his throat as Jafar’s tongue darted out to flick over his rim.

“Oh.” Mickey moaned, unable to keep his own mouth on Jafar’s cock as Jafar set to work licking into him, his tongue darting around and into his hole. “ _Yes_.”

Just like that, the upper hand Mickey had thought he’d gained was gone, and he was soon a helpless mess as Jafar steadily took him apart. He shamelessly rutted against Jafar’s mouth, enjoying the way his beard rubbed and scratched against his sensitive skin, and shifted his weight onto one arm so that he could reach between their bodies and stroke himself in time with each wicked jab of Jafar’s tongue.

Jafar chuckled, realising what Mickey was doing, and sped up the movements of his tongue, bring his hand up so that he could slip one single finger inside along with his tongue. Mickey came with a shout, spilling himself over his hand, his hips jerking helplessly as Jafar carried on licking him open without mercy.

He had to pull away in the end, tear himself away from that devilish tongue, and as he turned round to face Jafar he noticed the other man sporting an incredibly satisfied smirk. That wouldn’t do.

With a smirk of his own he settled himself between Jafar’s legs, all previous protestations against kneeling long forgotten, and set to work bringing Jafar to the edge with his mouth and hands. He looked up at Jafar as he mouthed at the very tip, holding his gaze as he let his tongue poke out from between his lips and oh so gently lap at the slit. Jafar bucked beneath him, desperate for _more_ , and Mickey winked before relaxing his throat and sucking him down. Jafar jerked up into his mouth and Mickey held himself steady, taking what Jafar gave him without flinching. It wasn’t long before Jafar came, spilling in hot spurts down Mickey’s throat, and Mickey happily drank it up.

“So.” He said, pulling himself up the bed to lie alongside Jafar. “Have we reached an agreement?”

Jafar glanced down, taking in their sweat soaked bodies and the remains of Mickey’s cum drying on both of them. “I think an alliance between us could prove to be very… pleasurable.” He said, and Mickey grinned.

“I’m glad to hear it.” He said. He kissed Jafar once, barely more than a brush of the lips, then hauled himself out of bed and started to get dressed. “We might want to hurry though- strictly speaking, we shouldn’t be up here.”

Jafar groaned, seemingly unwilling to leave the bed, but roused himself all the same. Before Mickey could open the door to leave Jafar pushed him up against the wood, kissing him deep one final time. Mickey was breathless by the time he finally fumbled the door handle to open.

“Excuse me.” There was a butler standing right outside the bedroom, looking incredibly put out. Mickey’s heart sank. “Who are you, exactly, and what are you doing up here?”

Mickey thought the ‘what’ was rather obvious, but bit his tongue to stop himself from saying something he’d regret. Luckily, Jafar filled the silence.

“Jafar.” He pulled himself up to his full height. “Ambassador for Agrabah. And this man is Mickey Miranda, the Foreign Minister for Cordova.”

The butler looked at them both blankly.

“Neither of those are real countries.” He said slowly.

“If they’re not real, then how are we here?” Mickey argued.

The man considered this for a second, his brow furrowing.

“This is incredibly rude.” Jafar said, then turned to Mickey. “I’m not going to stay here to be insulted.”

“I quite agree.” Mickey said. “Good-day, sir.” He said disdainfully. He swept past the butler before he could question them further, trying to keep some semblance of poise as he made his way down the stairs. He could hear Jafar’s footsteps behind him and sped up marginally, eager to leave the embassy before his deception was fully uncovered.

“Hey!” Another voice shouted from behind him, the French ambassador it sounded like, and Mickey walked even faster. He left the building and didn’t even wait for Jafar before running down the street back in the direction of his lodging. He paused after a couple of blocks to catch his breath.

“That was close.” Joe laughed as he finally caught up to Nicky.

“It was.” Nicky agreed, happy to see Jafar’s sly smile replaced with Joe’s genuine one. “Worth it, though.”

“I agree.” Joe glanced around the street to make sure no one was watching, then ducked in to press a kiss to Nicky’s lips. “Mickey, though? Really?”

Nicky sighed. He had known Joe would pick up on that. “I was so focused on coming up with the character I forgot the name until the last minute.”

“And you also presumably forgot that Cordova is a very real city?”

“Ah.” Nicky felt his cheeks flush. “I knew it sounded familiar.”

Joe chuckled, and Nicky playfully pushed him. “Well at least I didn’t steal _my_ character from 1001 Nights.”

Joe pressed a hand over his heart, pretending to be wounded. “Imitation is the highest form of flattery.”

“Is it indeed.” Nicky leant in towards Joe, so close he could almost kiss him again. “Well then, my next character will be called Joseph.”

Joe groaned.

“I’ll grow a beard.” Nicky continued.

“I take it back, Mickey is a marvellous name.”

“Too late, habibi.”

*****

“He tried Joseph the next time, but I couldn’t running with it. It turned oddly Biblical.” Joe poured out the last of the wine into their glasses. “I suppose that serves me right for trying it on at Christmas.”

“But that _other_ Christmas was better.” Nicky reminded him. “When you dressed as a Roman centurion and-“

“But you guys weren’t even _alive_ then.” Nile butted in.

“True.” Nicky shrugged. “But we found a full set of armour in one of Andy’s caves and it seemed a shame not to make use of it.”

“And Nicky’s a pro at making togas out of bedsheets.” Joe said proudly. “Came in useful that time Booker did a semester at Yale. He once-”

Joe was cut off by the sound of the front door slamming open: Andy was back sooner than expected.

“How was it?” he called out to her, a moment before she strode into the main room, her hair askew and her clothes crumpled. She looked incredibly pleased with herself.

“Just what the doctor ordered.” She grinned, reaching out for the wine bottle then discarding it with a grimace upon finding it empty. “What’re you guys up to.”

“Just talking.” Nicky said simply.

“They’re telling me about all the times they’ve roleplayed over the years.” Nile snorted. “And there’s a _lot_. I don’t know how you stood it.”

“Oh they really go for it.” Andy said, leaning over Nile’s shoulder to pick at her pizza crusts. “This one time they spent ages pretending to be fighting on opposite sides of the Crusades just so they could have hate sex afterwards.”

“Oh my god-” Nile’s eyes went wide for a second as she considered Andy’s words, then Nicky snorted and her expression cleared. “Joking. Of course.”

“That’s an interesting point though, we’ve never-”

“No.”

“No, of course not.”

“Although…”

“Hmm. Would you excuse us?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look I promised myself I wouldn't write the Primo kidnap roleplay but... I'm going to write the Primo kidnap roleplay. I just need to decide which of Marwan's other characters to pair him with... thoughts?


	5. The Farm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus scene: Joe, posing as an Egyptian dignitary gets "kidnapped" by a local Italian mobster...

Looking back, it was almost certainly Ashraf’s own fault for being kidnapped. Sneaking out from the Egyptian embassy in order to indulge in a night of dancing and drinking and gambling was, perhaps, never destined to end well, but being forced into the boot of a car and driven several miles out of the city was rather the worst case scenario.

When the car finally stopped and the hood was roughly pulled from his head, Ashraf realised to his embarrassment that he’d managed to be kidnapped by _just one man_. Really, he should have been able to fight him off, but in his drunken state it _had_ rather felt that at least three men had jumped him.

“Where am I?” he asked, searching his surroundings for something, anything, that might give him a clue where he was. Nothing. Just countryside.

“Somewhere they’ll never find you.” His captor responded. He was Italian, judging by his accent, and fashionably dressed in a well-fitted blue shirt that perfectly matched his almost-too-tight trousers. He had a moustache, and if they’d met under circumstances that hadn’t involved Ashraf being forced into a car he might have offered to buy the man a drink. As things stood, however, he rather worried that he’d be forced to buy his freedom.

“Who are you?”

“You can call me Primo. And _you_ are Ashraf Marwan, aide to the Egyptian ambassador. Your government should pay good money for you, I think.” The man- Primo- said.

Ashraf shook his head. “They won’t... I’m disposable.” He tried, hoping if Primo thought he was worthless he _might_ let him go.

Primo looked at him, weighing him up for a moment before he spoke.

“No.” He said. “They’ll pay.”

*****

As far as kidnappings went, this one was surprisingly pleasant. As soon as Primo was certain Ashraf wasn’t going to try to make a break for it he unbound his hands and let him explore the small farm house they were at. Ashraf could soon see why Primo wasn’t concerned- there was nowhere for him to run. By the looks of things they were miles from anywhere, and Primo clearly knew the land better than Ashraf ever could.

Ashraf had made the call to the embassy himself, relaying Primo’s demands down the phone to his supervisor. She had sighed, as though kidnappings were of no more interest to her than a change in the weather, but she had agreed to have the ransom dropped off at the meeting point first thing in the morning.

“What now?” Ashraf asked Primo as he finished telling him the news.

“Now, we wait.”

One night. Ashraf could wait one night. It helped that Primo proved to be remarkably good company, for a kidnapper: he shared beers and jokes and anecdotes with Ashraf over a campfire, and at times Ashraf even found himself forgetting that he’d ever been kidnapped in the first place.

“It’s not personal.” Primo told him at one point. “I don’t want to hurt _you_ -”

“You just want money.” Ashraf supplied. Primo made a face and shrugged.

“I have… debts. Plans.”

“Plans for what?” Ashraf asked.

Primo narrowed his eyes. “Just plans.” He said, making it clear that that was the end of the conversation.

He stood up and brushed down his trousers, then disappeared into the house. When he reemerged he had another couple of beers, and a small metal tin in one hand. He passed one of the beers to Ashraf then opened the tin, digging his little finger inside and bringing out a small scoop of white powder.

“Want some?” Primo noticed Ashraf staring and offered out his pinky to him. It _would_ help pass the time, Ashraf thought, but still...

“You first.” He said, wary. Primo shrugged and inhaled the coke, then measured out a new portion that he again offered to Ashraf. This time he leant forward to take it, sniffing hard and then swallowing.

“Good?” Primo asked, and Ashraf nodded.

“Good.” He confirmed. It was. Primo chuckled and licked his finger clean, then snapped the case closed and set neatly on the floor beside him.

It took a minute, a few minutes, until Ashraf truly began to feel the effects. The drugs coursed through his system and everything felt brighter, better somehow. Sure, Ashraf had been shoved into a boot and dragged out to the middle of nowhere while he waited to be ransomed, but Primo was _hot_ and there were definitely worse people to be kidnapped by. Speaking of hot, Ashraf was suddenly feeling too warm, too constricted by his shirt, and so he started to undo the buttons. Primo watched him with amusement.

“Are you not too hot as well?” Ashraf asked him. Primo shrugged.

“I am.” Ashraf told him, shedding his shirt completely and wondering if it was also worth taking off his thin undershirt. He noticed that Primo was watching him intently, the other man’s eyes drawn to the the muscles of his arms. Feeling bold, Ashraf pulled his tshirt up and over his head, leaving him topless.

“Better.” He sighed, enjoying the feeling of cool air against his bare skin.

“It is.” Primo agreed as he leant forward slightly, looking Ashraf up and down. After a moment of consideration he flicked his cigarette aside and undid the buttons of his own shirt, shrugging out of the fabric in a motion much more effortless than Ashraf’s own efforts. “Now we match.” He said with a smirk.

“Matching is good.” Ashraf said, his tongue suddenly feeling swollen in his mouth, his voice thick as he took in the sharp planes of Primo’s chest.

“Will you match me now?” Primo asked slyly, his hands coming up to unbutton his trousers, pulling them down his legs in one smooth motion. Well, it was only fair for Ashraf to copy him.

“Good.” Primo assessed. He crawled forward towards Ashraf, his gaze as steely as that of a predator watching its prey, and stopped when their faces were barely an inch apart. “And this?” he asked, his voice low.

He pressed his lips to Ashraf’s, their noses bumping together for a second before Primo tilted his head and parted his lips and _suddenly_ Ashraf felt his grasp on reality well and truly vanish. His kidnapper tasted of smoke and beer, his teeth sharp and tongue wicked, and it was all Ashraf could do to keep up and give as good as he got.

Somehow they stripped each other of their underwear, not caring in the slightest that the ground below them was covered in dirt and dust. It was uncoordinated and messy, hands and limbs stroking and tangling together until Ashraf was no longer sure where he ended and Primo began. He was hot, so hot, Primo’s skin burning against him like a brand wherever they touched. He could no longer tell what was up or down, who took who into their mouths first, who traced patterns in cocaine on the other’s skin, who _bit_ hard enough to draw blood and pleasure in equal amounts.

It was over too soon, the memories already tinged with a dream-like quality as Ashraf came down from his high, and he was suddenly tired, so very tired. He managed to stumble after Primo back into the farmhouse and into the tiny bedroom, dropping onto the rickety bed without a second thought that he’d be sharing it with his kidnapper.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be free again. But in the meantime…

Ashraf shot an arm out and pulled Primo close to him, holding tightly onto him as he drifted off to sleep.

*****

“No money. She didn’t show.” Primo said the next day, returning from the supposed drop-off point empty handed. He seemed more amused than angry at the fact, though. 

“I told you, they wouldn’t pay.” Ashraf said.

Primo shrugged, his posture changing as he rolled his body through the gesture, and just like that Nicky was stood in front of Joe.

“Do you want to stop? I mean you weren’t _actually_ expecting Andy to send the money, were you?” Nicky’s eyebrows raised in question.

“No.” Joe decided. “In fact… I think you should punish me for screwing you around. Perhaps you should even tie me up. Prevent me from running away.”

“Ah.” Nicky smiled. “I think I can do that. Safeword?”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Calzone.”

“Bello.”

Nicky’s concerned look vanished, replaced with Primo’s smirk, and Joe felt himself slipping back into Ashraf.

“Please. _Please_.” Ashraf threw his dignity aside and got down on his knees, looking up at Primo. “Give them another day, it must be a mistake.”

“A day.” Primo laughed. “Another day of waiting, of wasting my time.” Ashraf could swear he could see the nervous tension crackling around Primo, covering his skin. The man was one step away from doing something rash, he could tell.

“We had fun yesterday, right? We could again, to pass the time.” Ashraf tried.

Primo knelt down so they were at the same level, and took Ashraf’s chin in his hand, staring into his eyes.

“No.” He said.

“No?”

“No. You think I want to fuck someone who’s only in it to stay alive a little longer? No.”

“What if-“ Ashraf swallowed, hesitant to say the words aloud. Saying them out loud would make it real, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to face that. He took a breath. “What if I wanted it? Truly? Wanted _you_.”

Primo’s eyes were intense, boring into Ashraf’s own as though he was trying to tunnel into his mind, but eventually he nodded.

“Alright.”

He walked a few paces away, his eyes never letting Ashraf out of his sight, and bent down to pick up the rope that he’d carelessly discarded the day before. He returned with the rope, and motioned for Ashraf to hold his hands out in front of him. He swiftly bound Ashraf’s hands together.

“Just in case.” He said. Ashraf couldn’t help the thrill that ran through him as Primo hooked a finger into the ropes and tugged, causing Ashraf to stumble as he followed Primo back inside the house.

Once they reached the bed, Primo proceeded to tie Ashraf up further, securing his wrists to the bedframe. Ashraf was left spread out on his back, entirely at Primo’s mercy. Primo methodically stripped him of his trousers and underwear, then sighed in annoyance when he realised Ashraf’s bindings meant he couldn’t remove his shirt. He settled for rucking the material up around his armpits, bending down to worry at Ashraf’s nipples with his teeth as he did so.

“Turn over.” Primo ordered, his voice resonating through Ashraf’s whole body.

Ashraf tested the rope, pleased to find that there was enough give to allow him to awkwardly roll over onto his front. Once there, Primo tugged him into position so that he was kneeling on the bed. Ashraf held his breath, wondering what was going to happen next when-

The sound of Primo’s hand making contact rang through the air, as clear and sharp as the slap itself. Ashraf moaned as he felt a stripe of pain across his arse, soon fading into a wonderful burn. His cock twitched, and he spread his knees a bit wider, put himself on display a little more. Primo huffed a laugh, fingers gently caressing the spot he’d hit just moments before.

“So responsive.” He mused. “And here’s me thinking this was supposed to be a _punishment_.”

The next slap was harder, the sting penetrating deeper, and yet to Ashraf it felt so much better. He fell forward, catching his hands on the bedpost in an attempt to keep himself propped upright, and braced himself for the next blow. Primo’s hand came down again and again, and Ashraf felt his cock swell to full hardness under the other man’s ministrations. He felt raw, used, and he began to tremble with the effort of staying upright.

“Please,” he begged, when the dull throbbing between his legs became too much to handle, “Please, no more.”

“What?” Ashraf could practically hear the smirk in Primo’s voice. “You want some release?”

Ashraf could only nod in desperation as Primo placed another sharp smack against his cheek.

“ _Please_.”

All of a sudden Primo’s hands sought his hips, flipping him back over onto his back. He ran his hands down Ashraf’s chest, fingers lightly skimming over his skin before stopping just short of where he really needed them. Ashraf twisted against his restraints, trying to follow the touch and letting out a small noise of disappointment when he couldn’t. Primo laughed.

“I’m not going to make this easy for you. If you want to cum, you’re going to have to work for it. Earn back my trust.”

Ashraf watched as Primo stepped out of his trousers and underwear. He was already half-hard, and as he looked at the sight of Ashraf bound and tied to his bed he released an appreciative sigh and started to stroke himself.

“Perhaps I should just do this.” He said. “Enjoy the vision in front of me and take care of myself.”

“No.” Ashraf murmured. He wouldn’t be able to bear it, he _couldn’t_ , not when the sight of Primo’s cock filling out in front of him was already enough to have his hips frantically trying to buck up in search of any sort of release.

“No?” Primo took a step closer, his hand never once slowing its motions on his cock. A single bead of precum leaked from the tip, glistening against Primo’s skin, and Ashraf’s mouth watered at the sight. He was so close, so tantalisingly close, if only Primo would-

“You want this, huh?” Primo caught where he was staring, a smirk growing on his face. “Here.”

He swiped a finger across his slit and brought the digit up to rest against Ashraf’s mouth. Immediately, Ashraf parted his lips and let his tongue dart out to lick Primo’s finger. He tasted a trace of salt, of something sharp and bitter, but it was just that: little more than a tantalising tease.

“Please.” He said, looking up to meet Primo’s gaze. “Let me. Let me make it up to you.”

Primo’s eyes darkened, and he climbed up onto the bed, his legs bracketing Ashraf’s face. He directed his cock to Ashraf’s mouth, running the head across the seam of his lips. Ashraf opened his mouth, ready to take him in, but Primo merely chuckled and shuffled back.

“No.” He said, starting to slowly thrust into his own fist again. “You want it too much. I’m supposed to punish you, remember?”

Ashraf groaned, and Primo laughed at him, picking up the pace on his cock. There was little else Ashraf could do but watch, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of the tip of Primo’s cock peeking out from his fist over and over again, taunted by the sight of what he couldn’t have.

He could tell when Primo was close, and closed his eyes in preparation. An instant later he heard Primo groan, long and low, and felt his cum spatter up across Ashraf’s chest, his face. Some landed on his lips, and he licked them clean as he opened his eyes, relishing the taste.

Primo was smirking at him, his chest heaving as he came back down from his high. He reached out to stroke across Ashraf’s cheek, collecting his spend on his fingers.

“Open.” Primo demanded, and Ashraf dutifully opened his mouth, letting Primo slip his fingers inside. He sucked on Primo’s fingers, tongue swirling around to thoroughly clean them.

“Good boy.” Primo said softly. “I think you deserve a little reward.”

“Yes.” Ashraf keened, arching up against his restraints as Primo knelt down and slowly sucked his cock into his mouth. It was just what he wanted, what he _needed_ , Primo’s mouth so warm and perfect and skilled and-

Primo pulled off with an audible “pop”, the brief moment of pleasure taken away as swiftly as he’d bestowed it. Ashraf couldn’t help but cry out at the loss.

“Shhhh.” Primo soothed him. “Just wait a little longer. You can wait. Like I’m waiting.”

Ashraf’s mind was foggy, consumed with the all-encompassing need for release. He belatedly realised through his haze that Primo had reached for a jar from the bedside table and was pouring the contents on his hands, still sat straddling Ashraf’s legs.

He watched as Primo reached behind him, frustrated that he couldn’t quite _see_. He could tell what was happening though, could tell by the way Primo’s hand disappeared from view, his arm muscles flexing and his mouth falling slack he began to work himself open. He mindlessly pulled on his ropes, eager to touch, to _help_. His fingers itched as he watched Primo start to fuck himself on his fingers, the other man’s eyes closing as he gave himself over to pleasure.

“Please.” He said again, begging, and this time Primo finally listened.

He wiped his fingers on the bedsheet then poured a generous amount of oil over Ashraf’s cock, holding it steady before positioning himself and slowly sinking down onto it. Ashraf’s head fell back against the pillow as he was encased in wonderful, perfect heat. Primo was so _tight_ , and yet took Ashraf as though he’d been born to do it.

Primo wasted no time in rolling his hips, rocking against Ashraf in steady circles, those piercing eyes of his fixed directly on Ashraf’s own.

“I won’t last.” Ashraf gasped, his hips helplessly bucking up in time with Primo’s movements.

“Try.” Primo told him.

Ashraf shut his eyes, the sight of Primo bouncing on his cock almost too much to bear. Closing his eyes was almost worse. Every touch, every _sound_ was heightened, and Ashraf curled and tangled his fingers in his ropes in an attempt to ground himself. It didn’t work. Soon, too soon, he was spilling inside of Primo, stars dancing in front of his eyelids as his hips stuttered and jerked before stilling.

Primo stayed sat on Ashraf’s too-sensitive cock, and Ashraf opened his eyes to see him frantically stripping his cock. He came for a second time that day with a low cry, collapsing onto Ashraf’s chest as he did. They caught their breath together, chests heaving together in synchronisation until they managed to calm down.

Primo was too calm, Ashraf soon realised, and in fact appeared to be dozing on top of him. Ashraf bucked beneath him and he startled awake.

“Scusi.” He muttered, reaching up to tug Ashraf’s bonds loose. No sooner were the bindings relaxed then Ashraf felt himself sinking into sleep as well, the reassuring weight of Primo tucked in tight to his side.

*****

“What the _fuck_?” Booker’s voice echoed round the room, pulling Joe from his slumber.

“Book?” he murmured sleepily.

“Yeah. And let me say again, what the actual fuck?”

Joe realised that even though the ropes had been loosened, he was still effectively tied to the bed. He tugged on them until the unravelled, then looked at Booker sheepishly.

“Sorry.” He offered. Nicky, beside him, was resolutely pretending to be asleep leaving Joe alone with the awkward tension.

“I… never mind. Get dressed, both of you, Andy sent me to pick you up.”

Nicky “woke up” at that, blearily peering up at Booker through the curtain of his hair. “Did she send the ransom?”

“Did she- no! What ransom? Do you know what, actually, I don’t want to know.” Booker scrubbed his face with his hand and made a slight noise of exasperation. “I’ll see you both outside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Primo once said: "That's all folks"!

**Author's Note:**

> Hmm, the 30s... who's that gonna be?
> 
> As always, I'm on tumblr @tobebbanburg if ya want


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